


The First Five Dates

by mortuus_lingua



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: First Date, First Kiss, M/M, OMG Tiny Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortuus_lingua/pseuds/mortuus_lingua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don and Tim meet over a case, but afterward, with lavender roses in hand, Don convinces Tim into a first date. It doesn't go smoothly, but eventually it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Five Dates

Donald Strachey knew the place was swank before he walked in the door, but he wasn’t on the troll or a stakeout, so he wasn’t interested in really fitting in. That was good, because nothing in his wardrobe would stand up to the rarified air in the place. Still, the joint was classy without being too ludicrous. Clean and spacious with one of those Old World bars and a bartender who looked up and smiled at you when you walked through the door. From the array of glasses and liquor bottles arranged behind the bar, it wasn’t so Old World that all they served was beer and wine. There were a lot of martini glasses there. A white collar establishment, no doubt, as its location downtown near the government offices attested. 

The customers were a mixed lot. A pair of professional lesbians were chatting over wine in a corner while hetero singles and couples and the odd gay professional stood at the bar or found tables under spot lighting. None of them were the man he was waiting for.

“What can I do you for?” the bartender asked pleasantly.

“I’m waiting on someone. A regular… Tim Callahan?”

The guy gave him a doubletake straight from a romcom, then looked him up and down with a doubtful glance at Don’s blazer and jeans. “Huh,” came the assessment. 

Don wasn’t as stupid as he looked. That glance sort of said it all. Tim Callahan had to be an open book if a bartender knew his usual type. “It’s business,” he clarified. 

“Oh, yeah, well he’s usually … oh, there he is.”

Don followed the guy’s chin tilt at the entrance and took it all in, from the subtly striped three-piece, the perfect hair, and affable expression. Someone was already stepping up and shaking his hand, for god’s sake. From Callahan’s controlled smile, it was someone from the political side of his job. He politely excused himself and looked over to the bartender who in turn tilted his head at Don. 

Tim Callahan was really, really attractive, and Don got the full force of it when Callahan peered at him from behind his glasses with bright, perceptive eyes. Jesus, the man had one of those classically handsome faces you rarely saw outside of Hollywood, everything in proportion and perfectly presented. This man would never get a tattoo or be caught dead shopping off the rack. 

Going by that lavender tie, Callahan was either comfortably metrosexual or queer as a three dollar bill. If he was straight, Don would be so very disappointed in his own detecting skills and the universe in general.

Callahan held up two fingers at the bartender and without a pause strode up to Don with his hand extended. “Tim Callahan. Nice to meet you.”

He was either a born politician or a natural actor. Don couldn’t tell which. “Donald Strachey,” he replied, shaking the large hand that engulfed his. Christ, this guy was so fucking gorgeous it was making Don’s mouth water, and that didn’t happen often these days. Even the little imperfections of good humor lines at the eyes and mouth made Don want to smile. “Good to put the name to the voice,” he added.

Callahan gestured them to a table at the back wall and the bartender followed with his order. “I swear by the martinis here, but I can order something else if you’d rather not.”  
Don eyed the two glasses as they were set down. “Hey, me and olives, we’re like this.” He showed his two fingers crossed. “Add alcohol, and it’s a party.”

Callahan tipped his head, studying Don, and then smiled. “Good to know.” The bartender returned with a fancy crudité platter. “Sorry. I seem to have a ‘usual’.”

Don nodded. Over Callahan’s shoulder, he could see the man who had shaken the man’s hand at the door staring at them… no, glaring at them. “Uh, so, that guy who shook your hand, is he like an ex-boyfriend or something?”

“Greg?” Callahan’s eyebrows went up, surprised but not offended. “No, a constituent of the senator’s. Why?”

“Don’t turn your head! He’s really pissed off that you’re talking to me, so I’m just wondering. I haven’t been the subject of a death glare that bad since Afghanistan.” Don fished out his notepad and pen. “So, lay it on me. Greg who?”

Callahan told him, then they got into the real business of why they were meeting here. He’d gotten the setup from conversations on the phone, but Tim Callahan turned out to be really organized when it came to information. Seemed like his senator employer not only was receiving disturbing calls and emails, the people in charge of looking into it were not taking them seriously. It had motivated Callahan to look someone independent from the government, a private investigator recommended to him by a friend. He had names of people who opposed the senator, particularly the ones who seemed to be uninterested in stopping the messages. At one point, Don gave up taking it all down and took the database spreadsheet from Callahan to look it over. 

Don kept a lookout on Greg of the Death Glare, but the guy split pretty early on, probably because Don wasn’t disguising his awareness. The martinis kept coming, and before he could ask, Callahan ordered something more substantial for them to nosh on. From anyone else, Don would have found this privileged and controlling behavior really annoying, but Callahan was so damned charming about it, somehow unpresumptuous when he was basically highhandedly making all the decisions. It was kinda hot, actually. 

It was an hour and a half before it started winding down. Don honestly didn’t want it to, but he had a job to do and Callahan was now his client. They shook hands by the table. Callahan was looking him right into his eyes when Don stepped back.

“I’ll keep in touch, Mr. Callahan,” Don promised, doing the professional thing. 

“Yes, yes of course,” the man replied. He looked flushed and Don hoped it was him and not the martinis. 

 

It didn’t take long to figure out what was going on. It just needed someone who wasn’t involved in office politics. Within a week, he called Tim Callahan and cheerfully told him about the three people involved, laid out the proof, and let the police know. No one was arrested because no actual law on the books punished verbal or written harassment unless they threatened violence or death. 

A senator, however, had a lot of clout. A few days later, Don opened the newspaper over his morning coffee and read the news. Callahan nor he were mentioned, by agreement, but the three names were there and a really nice bit from the senator herself. The check that came in the mail two days later clinched it; it wasn’t the amount he’d quoted Callahan. It was substantially higher. 

“Huh,” he muttered, scratching at his unshaven chin. “Well played, Mr. Callahan. Well played.”

This time, he dressed carefully, his one pristine Polo shirt that showed off his arms, and a pair of chinos that flattered… his other assets. He used some of the senator’s money to buy flowers and gave a big, harmless smile to the receptionist. “Flower delivery for a Mr. Callahan?”

She was staring, hypnotized by the roses in his hands. “Oh, yes, of course.” She pressed a button. “Mr. Callahan, there’s a flower delivery for you. Shall I send him in?”  
“Flowers? Hmm, sure.” 

She waved Don through, pressing her fingers to her lips as if she were about to tear up at a wedding. He guessed that not a lot of flowers went through that door.

Callahan was standing and coming around his very solid desk, looking as impeccable as ever even though his jacket was hanging by the door, and Don had to smile as the man recognized him and gave him a nervous, twitchy smile, his chin coming up as if facing a firing squad. 

“Hey,” Don said, doing a bad job of hiding the huge freakin’ bouquet behind his back.

“Hello,” the other man replied, clearly puzzled but not unwelcoming. 

“So, I was thinking,” Don continued. “I’ve solved the case, right? Which means you’re not my client anymore.”

Callahan blinked. “Yes, that’s true, Mr. Strachey.”

Don grinned, and whipped the roses around in front of him, a full dozen of lavender-gray buds. “Call me Don, would you?”

Callahan stared, then blushed, which delighted the hell out of Don. “All right …Don.” He stepped forward, the roses between them. “You had better call me Tim, then.”

How Donald loved being right.

 

The first date was a disaster. Tim was really nervous. Gone was the self-assured authority and instead Don was having a drink with a skittish and shy basket case who would barely talk to him. An attempt at a goodnight kiss wound up being a peck and a door closed in Don’s face.

He figured he’d somehow screwed it up, or that Tim had gone out with him out of a sense of obligation. It was fucking depressing and he wound up pretty much living off of coffee and vending machine food from down the hall of his pathetic excuse for an office, for a whole week. He solved three different cases and finally went home and passed out Friday night.

Tim called him Sunday morning when he was hunched over his morning joe on the kitchen counter and flipping bleary-eyed through the newspaper. He looked at the name on the screen and almost declined the call, but then manned the fuck up and pressed the call button. “Hey, Tim.”

“Don, good morning.” Tim cleared his throat. “I wanted to, well, apologize for last week.”

“No apology necessary.” Don rubbed at his eyes. “I’m sorry I was such a crap date. What can I do for you?”

“No, it wasn’t… I mean, it was fine.” 

Don winced.

“What I mean is, I’m apologizing for my own behavior. I haven’t … dated in a long time, and you’re, you know, you, and I felt pressured.”

Don stared at his phone, then cleared his own throat. “Run that by me again? What do you mean, I’m me? Of course I’m me!”

“Oh god,” Tim sighed. “The thing is, you’re really …”

Don put his head on the counter and gently bounced his forehead on the cheap surface a few times. Here we go. He’d already heard the litany: too intense, too involved in his work, too short, too blue collar, too messed up by the war, too butch, too in your face, not fashionable enough, and for Christ’s sake, get a decent car. He just thought Tim was better than that.

“… you’re really amazing, and I sort of have a crush on you…” 

Don almost fell off his stool. He juggled his cell phone and slapped it back to his ear to hear Tim continue: “…I’m a perfectionist and very self-conscious whether you liked me or not.”

“Of course I like you. Weren’t the dozen roses not clear enough!?”

“I thought you might, but you were so standoffish.”

“I was standoffish? Are we remembering the same night? You barely said twenty words and when I touched you, you looked like you were about to faint. And let’s not even talk about the kiss, or lack thereof. I’m sorry, Tim, I don’t know what to say to you, or why you were so nervous.”

He could hear Tim gulp over the line. “Can we try again?”

Don gulped too. “You want to, really?”

“I-if you want to?”

“Crap,” Don muttered.

“You don’t want to?”

“I want to. I just don’t know. It was bad, Tim. So, so bad.”

“I was thinking maybe something less stressful.”

Don frowned. They’d been out to a pretty simple dinner. What was less stressful than that?

Apparently an LGBT fair.

 

The second date was less disastrous. The fair was actually kind of cool, booths with community services, or selling handmade stuff or cooking up exotic foods. He and Tim moved through the crowds, sharing their comments and excitement over every new thing. 

Don was out, but not particularly “out and proud.” He hadn’t gone to many events that were specifically LGBT because he didn’t like political fanfare. It was nice, though, to not be looking over his shoulder. Being a soldier had left him with a mild case of hyper vigilance, which was helpful for a detective but stressful when dating. 

Tim had worn dark wash jeans with a tucked-in button-down. Don got the impression that was as casual as Tim got. He looked really good, so when Tim crouched down in front of the bonsai booth, Don had to swallow at the sight of denim stretched over his ass. He caught two guys checking Tim’s ass out as well, and was tempted to do the Possessive Glare of Death. Then he remembered Greg Who and his Glare of Death, and merely stepped closer to Tim and smiled, crouching down next to him to tease him about wanting a tiny tree. 

The nervous Tim of the first date seemed to have almost completely retreated. They were having fun and it was diverting whatever had made Tim nervous. They wound up in a beer garden with Tim experimentally sipping on Stella Artois and Don drinking an Octoberfest. 

Over Tim’s shoulder, a group of tattooed and leather-vested bikers were sharing a pitcher, and two were ogling Tim’s ass. Tim was busy writing down some of the sellers he wanted to recommend, but when Don glanced back at him, Tim was frowning at him, notepad and pen set aside.

“Hey,” Don said, smiling. “How’s the beer?”

Tim turned in his seat to look at the men behind him, who were grinning. “Wanna go for a ride, sweetheart?” one of the former oglers leered.

“Thank you, no,” Tim replied primly. “I dated a biker in college. He had a boy in every bar up and down the Eastern seaboard; it wasn’t worth the ride.” He turned back around and saw the men all staring, mouths open. 

Don laughed so hard, he cried, and when he was done, bought another pitcher for the bikers. Tim’s chin had risen to that angle that made Don nervous so he was especially good for the rest of the day, being attentive.

He saw Tim to the door of his classy townhouse, wondering how it would go. Tim seemed to still like him at least, but he wondered if he hadn’t overstated the “crush” Tim said he had on Don. They’d stood next to each other closely for most of the day, but they hadn’t touched purposefully. Tim’s self-restraint was inhibiting Don a little, but not enough to hope that he’d finally get a real kiss at the end of the day.

“I had a wonderful time,” Tim said as they stopped at his door, then rolled his eyes with a nervous smile. “Sorry for being such a cliché.”

Don had his ‘in.’ “Tim, you could never be a cliché,” he assured the man and reached up to run his calloused thumb over a perfect cheekbone and watched as a blush suffused Tim’s face, and his dark green eyes went heavy lidded. It was amazing and arousing to see and Don forgot his misgivings and moved in to kiss, a gentle nudge because he really didn’t want to spook Tim.

He shouldn’t have worried. Tim might have been a shy date, but he wasn’t a shy kisser, and they spent a good, frustrating five minutes exploring with lips and tongues. Don was almost on the edge of wanting to climb Tim like a tree and start humping, and wisely backed off with a strained smile. 

This time, when the door closed, Don had a more optimistic view for future dates.

 

One the third date, Tim invited Don to his condo, cooked him a meal with equal parts meat and vegetables to satisfy both of their tastes, and then they made out on Tim’s couch after one martini each. Don had wanted to get his hands on Tim’s ass since day one, but it wound up that Tim was groping him long before Don was able to live that fantasy. 

Tim had broad shoulders, big hands and he was taller than Don by a couple of inches. He just had more mass on the leaner, shorter Don, and this wound up being a logistical problem because it wasn’t Tim who was initiating, so Don wound up straddling Tim’s legs and going to town. Tim’s big hands were at his waist and ass pretty early on, and Don had to chuckle wickedly into Tim’s ear. “My, my, Mr. Callahan, what kind of girl do you take me for?”

“Thank god you’re not a girl,” Tim groaned, yanking Don closer with an iron grip on his ass until they were grinding erections and Don was losing his mind.

They didn’t go to bed, or even have sex that night, but it was a near thing. Don went home and spent some alone time with himself. If Tim wanted to take his time deciding, Don would be all for that, but it wasn’t helping that Don hadn’t had sex in over a year and everything about Tim turned him on. 

 

A series of busy periods ensured they didn’t see each other for two weeks, although they texted each other quite a bit about the frustrations of their jobs. 

Tim: “I’m thinking about you tonight. Wish you were here instead of this paperwork.”

Don: “I think I’m jealous of your paperwork. I just want to sleep in a bed and not in my car, for the love of god.”

Tim: “Just keep your head down. I want a fourth date.”

Don: “Sir, you are very forward!”

Tim: “Only when it comes to you.”

Don: “Oh, there so many ways I could respond to that, but I’ll be good.”

Tim: “I rather like you when you’re not being good.”

Don: “You shouldn’t’ve told me that.”

Tim: “Will I be eating my words?”

Don: “Are you doing that on purpose?!!”

 

And just for that, Don took Tim to their fourth date where they flirted over dinner and wine, danced without too much groping on the dance floor, and when they got back to Don’s shabby apartment, Don shoved Tim just inside the door, fell to his knees, and got to hear what Tim sounded like when he came. 

His scalp tingled for days.

 

For their fifth date, they started in the bedroom and never left the bed. Don stopped counting after that.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in one day, riding an inspiration wave after watching "On the Other Hand, Death." Love these boys so much!


End file.
